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agattthaa · 10 days ago

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iris

synopsis: after the train is cancelled due to bad weather, the only option is a hotel room warnings: mostly fluff, mixed with some steamy thoughts and a cute kiss pairing: Zayne x fem! reader wc: 2.5k an: special shoutout to my love @agattthaa for cheering me on as I write my first lads fic

“We’ll have to spend the night in a hotel near the station.” Zayne murmurs, his voice impossibly calm against the bright red sprawl of delays glowing across the departure board. Outside, the wind rattles against the high glass panes like it’s laughing at you both. You nod, slowly, dragging your gaze from the empty tracks.

“Looks like it.” You sigh heavily.

You reach for your bag, fingers curling around the worn handle, but he’s faster. His hand brushes yours as he takes it, firm and quiet in the way he always is, like he’s done this before. Like he doesn’t even need to look at you to know where you are.

He starts walking. You fall into step behind him, your breath fogging in the winter air as you step out into the night. Each inhale stings just a little, a reminder that it’s too cold to be stranded like this. But of course, Zayne looks entirely unaffected, as he always does.

You pull your coat tighter, glancing over at him.

“Do you ever get cold?”

“Only in extreme temperatures. My body’s adapted to resist cold. Naturally.” He turns to glance at you, eyebrow slightly raised.

Of course it has. Of course he says it like that, like he’s listing the specs on a machine rather than describing something about his own skin. You nod, lips pressed together, and fall quiet again. There's not much room in the conversation for anything else. Definitely not much room for the way your fingers still remember the brief brush of his hand.

By the time you reach the hotel, your ears are aching and your patience has worn thin. There’s a line spilling out from reception, couples hunched together under coats, lone travelers cradling lukewarm coffee in stiff fingers. You let out a small sigh, rubbing your hands together.

“Apparently we’re not the only ones stranded.”

Zayne tilts his head in agreement, eyes scanning the crowded lobby. “It’ll be alright. They won’t all be looking for doubles.”

You glance at him, surprised by the ease in his voice. He sounds so certain, so steady. Like nothing could go wrong as long as he’s here. It shouldn’t be comforting. But it is.

When you reach the front of the queue, you’re happy to learn that there is a room available. Without much fuss for the details, you both agree. In a blink of an eye, Zayne pays for the room.

“For the coffee,” he mutters when you try to protest, slipping his card back into his wallet. His voice is low, unreadable. His hand brushes yours again when he takes the key, and the receptionist gives you a look that’s easy to read but hard to understand. Knowing.

You don’t ask what she thinks she knows.

Zayne carries your bag again, fingers curled around the handle like it belongs to him. He leads you through the hallway in silence, your footsteps muffled by plush carpet, nerves tapping at your stomach like rain on glass. It’s just a hotel room. Just a place to sleep.

But of course, Zayne was never just anything.

He stops in front of the door and hesitates. His body blocks your view, shoulders stiff, like he’s shielding something.

“What is it?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

He glances over his shoulder, and for once, something cracks the polished blankness of his expression. A flicker of hesitation. Of calculation. Then he steps aside, and you see.

One bed.

“Well…maybe there are still some rooms left.” You offer, but Zayne shakes his head.

“Unlikely. There were quite a few people in the queue after us, and more have arrived since. I suspect they’re completely booked by now.” His voice is still even. Rational. You wish he sounded even a little thrown.

He steps inside, and you follow, something tight coiling in your chest.

“If you’re uncomfortable,” he says, and this time he won’t look at you, his eyes fixed on the neutral tones of the room, the curve of the lamp base, the shadowed corners, anything but you. “I’ll take the floor.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Because you’re not uncomfortable. That’s the problem.

You’re a little too warm, actually. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your throat. You want to lay down in the center of that bed and see how close he’d be willing to get. You want-

No. No, you don’t say any of that.

“We’re both adults,” you say instead, and hope it sounds steadier than you feel. “It’s fine.”

Zayne nods. Slow. Measured. There’s something careful in the way his mouth twitches at the corner. Like a smile he’s swallowed.

He rolls up his sleeves then, fingers working slowly over each cuff like he’s buying himself time. His forearms are pale and lean, the veins faintly visible, like lines on a map you’re not allowed to trace. He moves with a quiet kind of control, like everything he does is premeditated. But even now, even so, there’s tension there. Like his hands are fighting the urge to do something reckless.

You sit on the bed. Just barely. Enough that you can pretend you’re keeping a safe distance. Enough that he can pretend he doesn’t notice how carefully you’ve placed yourself.

And you don’t look when his eyes flick toward you, when he watches you like you’re some equation he hasn’t solved yet.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you say, grabbing your things, and your voice cracks just slightly. He doesn’t answer, just hums, low and unreadable, and the sound follows you to the door like a hand at your back.

There, you allow yourself a heavy breath. It’s a nice hotel, the kind with a gleaming lobby and orchids on the check-in desk, the marble under your feet polished to a mirror shine. The bathroom is just as immaculate, gold fixtures, fluffy white towels, lighting that softens your reflection into something almost cinematic.

Putting aside the thoughts of the man on the other side of the door, you twist the handle of the shower until the pipes hum with warmth, and begin to undress. Your clothes fall to the tile like old skin. The moment the water touches you, it’s like something unspools in your chest. You exhale, slow and heavy.

Under the steam and heat, your anxiety begins to dissolve, bead by bead, slipping down the drain. Everything will be fine. You’ll sleep, wake up, catch the train, and pretend tonight never happened. You even let yourself smile as you rinse the shampoo from your hair.

After, swaddled in one of those hotel towels that feels like a hug, you finish your skincare by the mirror, skin dewy and warm. It’s only then that you realize the issue.

Your clothes. Your clothes are in the room.

With him.

You glance at your discarded outfit on the floor, travel-worn and rumpled. The idea of slipping back into them feels like a violation. You chew your lip. Think. Think.

But you already know the answer. There’s no way around it.

Besides, Zayne is a doctor. He’s seen bodies in states far more compromising than a towel-clad friend. He won’t even blink.

Still, when you open the door, clutching the towel tightly to your chest, your pulse is just a little too loud in your ears. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his phone lit in his hand, back turned, spine too straight. The tips of his ears are flushed red, and you’re not sure why.

The sound of the door pulls his gaze. He turns, instinctively, and freezes.

Your eyes lock. Then his flicker downward, fast, like he doesn’t mean to, like gravity itself pulled them. His gaze jerks back up, and the red on his ears spreads across his cheeks.

“I-um-left my clothes out here,” you say, trying to sound casual. The words feel silly, too small to fill the space between you. He doesn’t answer, just clears his throat and focuses harder on his phone. You can feel the heat rolling off him in waves.

You grab your t-shirt and shorts from your bag and duck back into the bathroom. As the door clicks shut behind you, you swear you hear him let out a shaky breath, like he'd been holding it the whole time.

You change quickly. Brush your teeth. Fix your hair.

When you return, Zayne stands, bundle of clothes in his arms, and brushes past you with a quiet nod. Clearly, he learned from your mistake.

With nothing else to do, you pull a book from your bag and slip into bed. The sheets are crisp, the mattress soft, but all of it pales next to the fact that there is only one bed, and you’re in it.

The sound of the shower starts, and you freeze.

Because on the other side of that wall, Zayne is naked.

You bury your face in your book. It doesn't help. Your brain is cruel and vivid, replaying the way water must glide down his back, the slope of his collarbone, the long lines of his body. You inhale sharply. No. No, no, no. You’re not thinking about that. You shouldn’t.

Zayne has always been... something else. More than a friend. Less than a possibility. Beautiful in a way that hurts to look at too long. Quiet, calm, and frustratingly unreadable.

And when he finally emerges, steam trailing after him, it’s almost worse than the images your imagination conjured. Plaid pajama pants hang low on his hips. His shirt rides up just enough to show the faintest dip of his waist. His hair is wet, mussed in a way that shouldn’t be allowed. He looks at you, expression unreadable, and says:

“It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

He climbs into his side of the bed. There’s space between you, technically. But it feels charged, like a live wire humming under the covers. You put your book down, turn off the lamp. The room folds into darkness.

You can’t sleep.

Really, you’re afraid to fall asleep, acutely aware of how Zayne is only a few inches to your left. Staring up at the ceiling, you try to distract yourself, thinking of mundane things like the groceries you’ll need to pick up when you get home. Somehow, your mind continuously works its’ way back to him.

You shift slightly, just enough that the blanket rustles, and you feel more than hear him react, some subtle change in his breathing, the faintest tension in the mattress. You’re suddenly sure that he’s not sleeping either.

Your voice is quieter than usual when you speak.

“Zayne?”

A pause. Then: “Yes?”

You roll onto your side, facing him. The room is dark, painted in soft shadows and faint outlines, but you can still just barely make out the shape of him, shoulders pulled tight under the blanket, chest rising and falling with quiet precision. His arm rests between you, a careful barrier. A line neither of you has dared to cross.

“Are you awake?”

“I am now,” he replies, and there’s a gentleness there. No real annoyance. No edge to his voice. Just warmth, settling low in your stomach.

You swallow. “This is… kind of a weird situation, huh?”

You hear his exhale, almost a laugh, hushed by the intimacy of the dark.

“It is.”

And for a while, that’s enough. The two of you lie there in the quiet, in the soft rhythm of shared breath and silence, like a bridge stretched taut over a river of unspoken things.

But then his voice threads through the stillness again, softer now.

“Are you comfortable?”

You hesitate. You could lie. You could say yes, laugh it off, roll over, and let this night pass without consequence. Let this be one of those near-moments you both carry in secret.

But your fingers curl against the sheets.

“Not really,” you say, and your voice sounds like it belongs to someone braver. “It’s hard to sleep when I keep thinking about…things I shouldn’t.”

The silence that follows is charged. Not empty, not absent, but alive. You can feel him holding it between his teeth like a confession.

He shifts slightly, and the mattress creaks as he turns toward you. You don’t move, not yet, but you feel him there. Closer. Not quite touching, but the promise of it lingers like heat.

“What kinds of things?” he asks, and his voice is lower now. Thicker.

Your lips part, then close again.

“I shouldn’t say.”

A pause.

Then, soft as a thread being pulled:

“You can show me.”

You don’t even breathe for a moment.

He says it like a secret, like a favour, like he’s been waiting all night for you to want the same thing.

You move without thinking. Inch closer. Feel the brush of his leg against yours beneath the blankets. And then, tentatively, your hand slides across the sheets until your fingers find his.

He’s cold in a way that feels good. Steady and grounding. His fingers close around yours slowly, like he’s making sure this is real. Like he wants to give you the chance to change your mind.

But you don’t.

“Zayne,” you whisper, and the way he breathes when you say his name, it’s reverent. Like you’ve unspooled something fragile between you.

Then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, hesitant, the kind of kiss that feels more like a question than an answer. His hand finds your face, thumb brushing the line of your cheekbone, and the way he touches you, carefully, earnestly, like he’s trying not to break something, makes your chest ache.

You kiss him back, with trembling hands and quiet longing, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. He tastes like warmth, like something you’ve waited too long to have.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the hush between kisses.

“Was that okay?” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That was more than okay.”

His hand slides around your waist, slow and careful, drawing you against him until your head settles on his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, the sound anchoring you to something that feels real.

Neither of you speaks after that.

There’s no need.

The room is quiet, and the night wraps around you both like a secret kept warm in the dark.

#OH #MY #GOD #absolutely breathtaking #absolutely perfect #absolutely amazing #absolutely stunning #i don't even know what to say if I'm being honest #but this is definitely Aditi's best #and i consider myself an Aditi specialist #jesus #this is so good #i wish I could go back on time so I could read this for the first time again #jesus christ #this is so good omg

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